THE WORLD OF DREAMS.

I.
And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep?
Thy senses, thy affections, fled?
No play of fancy thine, to keep
Oblivion from that grave, thy bed?
Then art thou but the breathing dead;
I envy, but I pity too:
The bravest may my terrors dread,
The happiest fain my joys pursue.
II.
Soon as the real World I lose,
Quick Fancy takes her wonted way, 10 
Or Baxter’s sprites my soul abuse—
For how it is I cannot say,
Nor, to what powers a passive prey,
I feel such bliss, I fear such pain;
But all is gloom, or all is gay,
Soon as th’ ideal World I gain.
III.
Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep!
Vain troubles of the world, farewell!
Spirits of Ill! your distance keep—
And in your own dominions dwell, 20 
Ye, the sad emigrants from hell!
Watch, dear seraphic beings, round,
And these black Enemies repel;
Safe be my soul, my slumbers sound!
IV.
In vain I pray! It is my sin
That thus admits the shadowy throng.
Oh! now they break tumultuous in—
Angels of darkness fierce and strong!
Oh! I am borne of fate along;
My soul, subdued, admits the foe, 30 
Perceives and yet endures the wrong,
Resists, and yet prepares to go.
V.
Where am I now? and what to meet?
Where I have been entrapt before:
The wicked city’s vilest street—
I know what I must now explore.
The dark-brow’d throng, more near and more,
With murderous looks are on me thrust;
And lo! they ope the accursed door,
And I must go—I know I must! 40 
VI.
That female fiend!—Why is she there?
Alas! I know her.—Oh, begone!
Why is that tainted bosom bare?
Why fix’d on me that eye of stone?
Why have they left us thus alone?
I saw the deed—why then appear?
Thou art not form’d of blood and bone!
Come not, dread being, come not near!
VII.
So! all is quiet, calm, serene;
I walk a noble mansion round— 50 
From room to room, from scene to scene,
I breathless pass, in gloom profound;
No human shape, no mortal sound—
I feel an awe, I own a dread,
And still proceed—nor stop nor bound—
And all is silent, all is dead.
VIII.
Now I’m hurried, borne along,
All is business! all alive!
Heavens! how mighty is the throng,
Voices humming like a hive! 60 
Through the swelling crowd I strive,
Bustling forth, my way to trace;
Never fated to arrive
At the still-expected place.
IX.
Ah me! how sweet the morning sun
Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine!
How soft those far-off rivers run—
Those trees their leafy heads decline!
Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine,
Their health-imparting influence give: 70 
Now, all that earth allows is mine—
Now, now I dream not, but I live.
X.
My friend, my brother, lost in youth,
I meet in doubtful, glad surprise;
In conscious love, in fearless truth;
What pleasures in the meeting rise!
Ah! brief enjoyment!—Pleasure dies
E’en in its birth, and turns to pain:
He meets me with hard glazèd eyes!
He quits me—spurns me—with disdain! 80 
XI.
I sail the sea, I walk the land;
In all the world am I alone:
Silent I pace the sea-worn sand,
Silent I view the princely throne;
I listen heartless for the tone
Of winds and waters, but in vain;
Creation dies without a groan;
And I without a hope remain!
XII.
Unnumber’d riches I behold;
Glories untasted I survey— 90 
My heart is sick, my bosom cold,
Friends! neighbours! kindred! where are they,
In the sad, last, long, endless day:
When I can neither pray nor weep,
Doom’d o’er the sleeping world to stray,
And not to die, and not to sleep?
XIII.
Beside the summer sea I stand,
Where the slow billows swelling shine.
How beautiful this pearly sand,
That waves, and winds, and years refine! 100 
Be this delicious quiet mine—
The joy of youth, so sweet before,
When I could thus my frame recline,
And watch th’ entangled weeds ashore!
XIV.
Yet, I remember not that sea,
That other shore on yonder side:
Between them narrow bound must be,
If equal rise th’ opposing tide—
Lo! lo! they rise—and I abide
The peril of the meeting flood: 110 
Away, away, my footsteps slide—
I pant upon the clinging mud!
XV.
Oh, let me now possession take
Of this—it cannot be a dream.
Yes! now the soul must be awake—
These pleasures are—they do not seem.
And is it true? Oh joy extreme!
All whom I loved, and thought them dead,
Far down in Lethe’s flowing stream,
And, with them, life’s best pleasures fled: 120 
XVI.
Yes, many a tear for them I shed—
Tears that relieve the anxious breast;
And now, by heavenly favour led,
We meet—and One, the fairest, best,
Among them—ever-welcome guest,
Within the room, that seem’d destroy’d—
This room endear’d, and still possess’d,
By this dear party still enjoy’d!
XVII.
Speak to me! speak! that I may know
I am thus happy!—dearest, speak! 130 
Those smiles that haunt fond memory show!
Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak;
But yet ’tis joy—And all I seek
Is mine! What glorious day is this!
Now let me bear with spirit meek
An hour of pure and perfect bliss.
XVIII.
But do ye look indeed as friends?
Is there no change? Are [ye not] cold?
Oh! I do dread that Fortune lends
Fictitious good!—that I behold, 140 
To lose, these treasures, which of old
Were all my glory, all my pride:
May not these arms that form infold?
Is all affection asks denied?
XIX.
Say, what is this?—How are we tried
In this sad world!—I know not these—
All strangers, none to me allied—
Those aspects blood and spirit freeze:
Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare;
And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm, 150 
Resume thy wonted looks and air,
And break this melancholy charm!
XX.
And are they vanish’d? Is she lost?
Shall never day that form restore?
Oh! I am all by fears engross’d;
Sad truth has broken in once more,
And I the brief delight deplore.
How durst they such resemblance take?
Heavens! with what grace the mask they wore!
Oh, from what visions I awake! 160 
XXI.
Once more, once more upon the shore!
Now back the rolling ocean flows:
The rocky bed now far before
On the receding water grows—
The treasures and the wealth it owes
To human misery—all in view;
Fate all on me at once bestows,
From thousands robb’d and murder’d too.
XXII.
But, lo! whatever I can find
Grows mean and worthless as I view: 170 
They promise, but they cheat the mind,
As promises are born to do.
How lovely every form and hue,
Till seized and master’d—Then arise,
For all that admiration drew,
All that our senses can despise!
XXIII.
Within the basis of a tower,
I saw a plant—it graced the spot;
There was within nor wind nor shower,
And this had life that flowers have not. 180 
I drew it forth—Ah, luckless lot!
It was the mandrake; and the sound
Of anguish deeply smother’d shot
Into my breast with pang profound.
XXIV.
“I would I were a soaring bird,”
Said Folly, “and I then would fly.”
Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard—
“You can but fall—suppose you try!
And, though you may not mount the sky,
You will not grovel in the mire.” 190 
Hail, words of comfort! Now can I
Spurn earth, and to the air aspire.
XXV.
And this, before, might I have done
If I had courage—that is all.
’Tis easier now to soar than run;
Up! up!—we neither tire nor fall.
Children of dust, be yours to crawl
On the vile earth!—while, happier, I
Must listen to an inward call,
That bids me mount, that makes me fly. 200 
XXVI.
I tumble from the loftiest tower,
Yet evil have I never found;
Supported by some favouring power,
I come in safety to the ground.
I rest upon the sea, the sound
Of many waters in mine ear;
Yet have no dread of being drown’d,
But see my way, and cease to fear.
XXVII.
Awake, there is no living man
Who may my fixed spirit shake; 210 
But, sleeping, there is one who can,
And oft does he the trial make.
Against his might resolves I take,
And him oppose with high disdain;
But quickly all my powers forsake
My mind, and I resume my chain.
XXVIII.
I know not how, but I am brought
Into a large and Gothic hall,
Seated with those I never sought—
Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers—silent all; 220 
Pale as the dead; enrobed and tall,
Majestic, frozen, solemn, still;
They wake my fears, my wits appal,
And with both scorn and terror fill.
XXIX.
Now are they seated at a board
In that cold grandeur—I am there.
But what can mummied kings afford?
This is their meagre ghostly fare,
And proves what fleshless things they stare!
Yes! I am seated with the dead: 230 
How great, and yet how mean they are!
Yes! I can scorn them while I dread?
XXX.
They’re gone!—and in their room I see
A fairy being, form and dress
Brilliant as light; nor can there be
On earth that heavenly loveliness;
Nor words can that sweet look express,
Or tell what living gems adorn
That wond’rous beauty: who can guess
Where such celestial charms were born? 240 
XXXI.
Yet, as I wonder and admire,
The grace is gone, the glory dead;
And now it is but mean attire
Upon a shrivel’d beldame spread;
Laid loathsome on a pauper’s bed,
Where wretchedness and woe are found,
And the faint putrid odour shed
By all that’s foul and base around!
XXXII.
A garden this? oh, lovely breeze!
Oh, flowers that with such freshness bloom!— 250 
Flowers shall I call such forms as these,
Or this delicious air perfume?
Oh! this from better worlds must come;
On earth such beauty who can meet?
No! this is not the native home
Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet!
XXXIII.
Where? where?—am I reduced to this—
Thus sunk in poverty extreme?
Can I not these vile things dismiss?
No! they are things that more than seem: 260 
This room with that cross-parting beam
Holds yonder squalid tribe and me—
But they were ever thus, nor dream
Of being wealthy, favour’d, free!—
XXXIV.
Shall I a coat and badge receive,
And sit among these crippled men,
And not go forth without the leave
Of him—and ask it humbly then—
Who reigns in this infernal den—
Where all beside in woe repine? 270 
Yes, yes, I must: nor tongue nor pen
Can paint such misery as mine!
XXXV.
Wretches! if ye were only poor,
You would my sympathy engage;
Or, were ye vicious, and no more,
I might be fill’d with manly rage;
Or had ye patience, wise and sage
We might such worthy sufferers call;
But ye are birds that suit your cage—
Poor, vile, impatient, worthless all! 280 
XXXVI.
How came I hither? Oh, that Hag!
’Tis she the enchanting spell prepares;
By cruel witchcraft she can drag
My struggling being in her snares:
Oh, how triumphantly she glares;
But yet would leave me, could I make
Strong effort to subdue my cares!—
’Tis made!—and I to Freedom wake!

[HIS MOTHER’S WEDDING-RING.]

[About 1813–4.]
The ring so worn, as you behold,
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold.
The passion such it was to prove:
Worn with life’s cares, love yet was love.